Fine Poem by Robert Rorabeck

I thought it was over,
That all the scars had dried up like fish
Penned on trees,
That the wagon had turned over spilling its sin
Into a double scoop of holocaust,
That I was kicked out of the house with the
Dirty cat, like a starving beggar:
But now this comes, new mutations up from
The anointed feet: feel me,
The itch of seams, the molt of butterfly.
How I come dancing over the purplish tor,
Giving motion to the lack of better words. A
Dictionary is flotsam without its society‘s notions,
And now everyone is losing their houses:
They are floating down river calling to helicopters.
How so, I am above them, a needle of light doing
No work, but feeling fine.
Where are they going spinning? Will they soon
Catch fire? Or, who is this, a bit of sugar at my shoulder,
Perhaps tossed there like smoke billowing from the
Glades,
And I am not even there? I am hung out to dry,
And the crowd has traveled south like a carpetbag-ing
River flooding the banks. Winnowing fingers
Lock on to saints and talking rabbits;
But the sky only whistles, too lazy to make rain to net
A rainbow- it is doing fine.